Watson glances at Cerrit's face at he works, aware that feathers hide many of the signs of a patient's distress -- pallor, cyanosis. There's also something of an issue with unfamiliar anatomy, and frankly it's disappointing that the chance to closely examine the musculature that results with a whole extra set of limbs came from circumstances like this, rather than something much more cosy and intimate. This is the sort of thought that does have Watson reflecting on whether it's hopelessly weird or not, but he can't dwell too hard on it either way. He's working, lost in intent focus for the moment, and wounds heal the same way even if they're on wings.

"I imagine," Watson says, as he finishes up his dressing, "that dried blood matted in feathers is hellishly unpleasant, and that we ought to clean the rest of you as well." We, because he's volunteering, despite the fact that he's nearly dead on his feet. "I think you'll have to undress. I should heat some more water, and perhaps a drink for both of us."